


Love Song

by fab_fan



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Drama, During Canon, F/F, Family Drama, Gen, I'm tired folks and this popped out, Introspection, It's barely angst, Light Angst, Lightest of light angst, Music, Musical Instruments, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Random & Short, Short, Short & Sweet, The Author Regrets Everything, no idea what this even is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27538357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_fan/pseuds/fab_fan
Summary: Raelle was eight years old when she fell in love for the first time.It wasn’t with Hannah or Jennifer or the redhead who visited town for a few weeks one summer.It was an old rusted hunk of junk tucked far back in her neighbor’s closet.It was the banjo.
Relationships: Byron & Raelle Collar, Edwin Collar & Raelle Collar, Raelle Collar & Willa Collar, Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 51
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy folks. Hadn't posted in a while, and this random thing popped into my head. Hope you enjoy. If not - I'm heavily sleep deprived, and you are more than welcome to read something else. Not that I don't want you to enjoy nor that I appreciate you dropping in. I do. Did I mention I'm sleep deprived?

The first time Raelle Collar heard a guitar she was five years old and sitting on the front stoop of her house. 

It was a mildly warm day, a light breeze rustling the dust into a tiny cloud of swirling soot. It had been dry for months, not even a trickle of rain coming down to turn the grass green and let the nearby stream flow. Everything was yellow and brown, dead or dying. The sun’s rays reflected off the cracked and chipped ground that once was mud but now only crunched like broken glass and jarred like boulders when stepped on. The once blooming flowers were long since gone, their sweet subtle scents that calmed and drew out a sense of wonder and hope wilted and turned to smudged bleak brittle flakes of death. 

Raelle fiddled with a stick, thin and fragile, more kindling than anything, and poked at the ground near her sneaker clad feet, the soles worn down to nothing and a bit of the toe frayed while the laces were barely more than threads, tiny withered split strings. Her dad promised they’d get her a new pair the next time they went shopping, but she didn’t mind. She liked her shoes. They fit just right. Same as her pair of jeans with the holes in the knees and the shirt that had been washed and hung out to dry in the hot Cession sun so many times that it turned from black to blue, her white shirt more splotches of fabric held together by random bits of cloth than a true thing with sleeves and a hemline and collar.

The ends of her sun kissed hair tickled her ruddy burnt cheek, and she batted it back with her grubby hand before scratching at the edge of her jaw. Her dad was at work, and her mama was gone for a few more months, so she was left to watch the house till supper time. A few of the local kids were kicking a raggedy ball nearby, but they hadn't invited her over to play. Sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn’t. It usually depended on if the boy from the end of the street was playing or not. He didn’t seem to like Raelle. Said things about her being a weirdo witch who would cheat.

Raelle had never cheated in her life.

She never needed to.

Besides, her dad would get mad if she did. Collars didn’t cheat or steal or lie. 

He’d tell her mama, too. 

Raelle didn’t want to make her mama upset with her. Not when she was always gone. She didn’t want her mama to think Raelle couldn’t take care of herself and be good. She didn’t want her to worry.

She wanted her to be proud.

Come home and see that her and her dad were ok. That they missed her. That Raelle was a good kid and could be just like her, fixing people and being a hero.

The very thought of making her mama sad or disappointed made Raelle’s chest ache worse than the time she got shoved down and the wind knocked out of her because she asked to hold Hannah’s hand before Billy did, and the other girl said yes.

Raelle wasn’t supposed to get into fights, either, but she also knew she was supposed to be strong and protect people. That’s what Collars did. That’s what witches did. It’s what her mama did. 

So, when she was able to suck in a lungful of air, she balled up her fist and hit Billy in the eye.

Hannah held her hand afterward, and it was worth getting shouted at by Billy’s parents and the principal. 

Her dad wasn’t too happy about it, but he understood. He even gave her dessert that night.

They never got dessert except on her birthday and when her mama came home. She and her dad cooked up a celebratory dinner that included all of the matriarch’s favorites, including a big dish of blackberry cobbler with a scoop of melting vanilla ice cream on top.

Her mama always let her have the first bite.

But, she was five years old and left on her own for a few hours until her dad got back from the auto shop and gas station he worked at closer to town. Nothing to do but sit and wait and stay out of trouble.

Maybe she’d go down to the riverbed. The stream was empty, not a lick of water for miles, but she could still explore. Be back before her dad’s old truck rumbled up. If she went to where the creek split, she’d be close enough to the road to hear him, and she was fast enough to run back before he opened his door. She might find something interesting down there. Maybe one of those fossils she’d seen in a book at the library her class went to. Or a frog or a funny shaped branch. Might even find an old coin someone lost or end up on an adventure like in the other book she saw before the teacher plucked it from her hands and whisked her back to where the rest of the class was lined up to leave.

She could pretend to be a pirate digging for treasure or a great explorer discovering the stream for the first time.

She could be a soldier on her way to war.

She could be like her mama.

Her jaw ticked.

She’d be gone, though.

She didn’t want to be gone.

Not from her dad. 

She jabbed the stick at the ground and dragged it in jagged lines, drawing random shapes when she heard it.

It was a bit halting at first. A few random strange sounds as thick fingers plucked and prodded.

Then, something almost like Work happened.

She heard what sounded like the most beautiful noise she had ever heard.

It was strange and unusual and called to her like a siren to a wayward sailor. 

Her head lifted, bright light blue eyes darting around, searching for where the noise was coming from. 

That’s when she spotted the old man sitting a few houses down in a rickety old fold out chair, the metal rusted and threatening to collapse under his large frame. A hat was pulled low across his dark wrinkled brow, and he chewed on something, spitting out brown streaks of sticky liquid every few minutes. In his lap was nestled a guitar, old but still working, faded but not forgotten. 

Raelle didn’t know she was standing and creeping toward the music, mind in a trance and feet with a life of their own, until the man looked up at her, pinning her in place with steely piercing black eyes.

He spat out a hunk of bleak brown spittle, “What you want?” His long black hair was tied up, and his cheeks hung a bit, drooping like tired old flaps. The lines around his eyes were deep, deeper than the river when it roared strong and fast. His shirt had yellowed from age, and a thick vest rested over his chest. Large brown boots peeked out from beneath rough denim jeans, and his fingers were like tree branches.

Raelle licked her lips, a zip of fear racing through her at getting caught. But, she wasn’t scared. She wasn’t scared of anything. She pulled her tiny shoulders back, her shirt baggy across her thin frame, and jutted out her jaw, “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

She nodded, “That?”

He seemed to stare at her for a few seconds, thinking over what was happening, “My guitar?”

“Guitar.” she repeated. “I like it.”

“You do, do you?”

Raelle nodded, toeing at the dirt, “Yes, sir.”

“You ever heard one before?”

She shook her head. The radio didn’t work too well, and she was usually off running around the fields or waiting for the mailman to deliver one of her mama’s letters. 

“You’re the witch, aren’t you?”

Raelle felt her skin prickle, jaw clenching, her body already taught to be wary when someone pointed that out.

Noticing the way her face turned into a silent growl, the man chuckled, “Witches been in the Cession far longer than some of the other folks around here. Jus’ making sure I know who I’m talking to. That’s all.” He tilted his head, “Come on up.”

Raelle blinked. What?

“Come on,” he beckoned, “You’re smaller than a grasshopper. Anyone ever tell you that.”

“I’m not a grasshopper.” Raelle grumbled, bounding up the stairs and skidding to a stop in front of him, “I’m not small.”

She was.

About the shortest in her class.

It was fine. She’d grow taller.

Could still take care of herself until she did.

“Alright.” he held up a hand placatingly, “Take a seat.”

Hesitating only a second, she plopped down, legs crossing comfortably. 

Shaking his head, the man held out the guitar, “Here.”

Raelle stared at him.

He jiggled it, “Take it.”

Carefully, she let him drop the guitar into her small hands. The thing was gigantic against her, and her arms wobbled as the full weight hit. She did her best to not show how heavy it was and cradled it in her lap.

It felt better than anything she’d ever held before.

“Hold it like this.” he bent over and adjusted the instrument, pressing her hands into place. “Now, run your thumb against that string.”

Peeking up at him, warily, Raelle touched the pad of her thumb to one of the strings. Giving him one last look, she took a deep breath and ran her thumb against it.

She broke out into a smile at the sound.

“Got ourselves a guitar player here.” the man clapped his hands together and spit. “Now, you feeling country or rock, today?”

Raelle’s shimmering eyes couldn’t tear away from the guitar that was almost bigger than she was.

* * *

Raelle was eight years old when she fell in love for the first time.

It wasn’t with Hannah or Jennifer or the redhead who visited town for a few weeks one summer.

It was an old rusted hunk of junk tucked far back in her neighbor’s closet.

It was the banjo.

She had learned to play the guitar. Was pretty good at it. Could be found most nights out on her porch or in her bedroom, strumming to whatever notes popped into her head. Her dad didn’t mind, actually encouraged her to do whatever made her grin. She got to share the guitar with the old man, her dad not able to buy her one for her birthday because something always popped up - the engine stalled out and needed replacing in the truck, winter was coming and they needed new coats, or Raelle wanted to get her mama something nice instead, because she was always gone and she was so tired when she came home.

So, Raelle borrowed the old guitar and played.

It was nice. 

But, something didn’t fit.

It was alright, better than alright, but there was something missing.

She never quite figured it out till the neighbor’s cousin, a middle aged woman with thick midnight hair and a welcoming smile, came for a visit and was plucking at it while leaned up against the cracked wall of the house one day, feet crossed and tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, while Raelle was walking back from school, bag of books and papers and pencils slung over her shoulder and bouncing against her thigh.

Raelle spotted the instrument, heard the unfamiliar unique pling that was like nothing she’d ever heard before, indescribable and sharp, and stopped dead in her tracks.

She didn’t know how. She didn’t know why. 

All she knew was the thing looked more beautiful than the stars at night when it was clear and you could see for miles.

Sounded prettier than anything she’d strummed on the guitar.

The notes danced. Bounced. Pranced around undaunted and sharply high, so different from the guitar. It was bright. It twanged like her voice did when she was excited or upset. It was harder yet lighter. 

It reached into her chest and held on tight. Burrowed in and rested in her soul.

Raelle turned on her heels and sped over to the edge of the property, the old man already in his foldout chair, a knowing sly smirk in place as he caught sight of the girl with the skinned knees and curious eyes.

“Hey there, Hopper!” the man called out with a chortle and a sniff. He spat out the same sticky brown sludge he’d been spitting since Raelle met him.

Raelle barely lifted a hand to the man, entirely focused on the woman plucking away. It was something special. Harsh yet happy. Deeper yet more sprightly. Playful yet mournful. It tickled in a way hearing the guitar did, but somehow just a bit more. It sounder rougher yet it sang. It spoke. It drawled in a way that was quick but still stuck to the roof of her mouth like some words kept doing from time to time no matter how hard she tried to speak clearly like the teachers wanted her to, like her mama said she'd need to when she got to Fort Salem.

Seeming to notice the audience, the woman’s fingers began to move faster, tips and thumb flying as her foot began to tap lightly.

Raelle was in love.

All she could hear was the banjo.

All she ever wanted was to cradle the instrument close and let it sing. Let it drawl and twinge and twang and feel everything she was feeling

* * *

Raelle met what she thought was her true love when she was ten.

Sitting at the kitchen table, head bent over the newest letter from her mama, the entire page filled front to back with a scrawl that was burned into her mind, Raelle flinched when a box was set gingerly at her elbow. Peering up, she frowned at the old box no bigger than her palm and the color of the parchment paper the butcher used to wrap up the roast they’d get once a year around the Yule holiday. Smudged black lines painted the lid, a stamp long since faded, only a few marks left over from time and use. 

Her father settled into the seat across from her, hands grizzled and whiskers in need of a shave. He lifted his chin at the box, “Open it.”

“What is it?” Raelle asked, delicately touching the box, running the tip of her forefinger along the edge. It wasn’t her birthday. 

She only ever got gifts for her birthday.

Her dad smiled at her, “Open it and find out.”

Raelle bit her lip, a sense of excitement bubbling up inside, but she pushed it down. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. The shop had been slow lately. Maybe it was a new pair of shoelaces. Hers were all but gone. Or, maybe it was something from her mama. Maybe he had found a new batch of photos. She liked looking at them when she got lonely and missed her mama’s voice. Missed her healing touch. Felt she was forgetting the color of her eyes. 

Slowly, she slid her fingers around the lid and lifted.

She tilted her head in confusion at the small item nestled inside in a pillow of scrunched up newspaper. Blinking, she gingerly picked it up, holding it up to the light for inspection. She turned it around, studying all sides of it, “What is it?”

Her dad smiled gently, “Harmonica. Your aunt used to play. Got your musical side from your mama. That was V’s.”

Raelle curled her fist around it, marveling at the smoothness of the metal and the small holes perfectly aligned. 

This was her aunt’s. 

Her aunt who had died when she was too small to remember her.

Edwin rested his elbows on the table and pointed, “She liked the harmonica because she could bring it with her when she had to leave. Could keep it in her pocket.” He shrugged affably, “I know we don’t have the money right now for those other ones you like, but, maybe you could learn this one, too.” He swallowed roughly, “You can take it with you, wherever you go.”

Raelle let her eyes drift to him, seeing the sad spark in his gaze, before dipping back to the harmonica. 

She cautiously brought it to her lips and blew.

Edwin grinned as her eyes lit up.

* * *

Raelle was seventeen when her heart was shattered.

Raelle was seventeen when the army delivered a flag and nothing more than empty condolences.

Huddled near the riverbank, the waters flowing like a storm, rapids spinning and spitting, the silt threatening to collapse under the fierce fury of mother nature, Raelle glared into nothing.

Dead.

Her mother was dead.

Gone.

Never coming home.

She sniffled, wiping her sleeve roughly against her tear streaked face.

Her mama was killed, and the army didn’t care.

No one cared.

Not about a witch. Not about a combat medic who was tired. Who only wanted to come home. Be with her family.

Why should they care? 

Why care when it was all they were ever going to do? Witches served. They took the oath and they died. Conscription. Slavery by another name. They lived and they died and had nothing to show for it except broken lives and broken homes and broken hearts.

Her teeth ached as she bit down, shoving the sob gurgling in her throat back into her lungs, back into her soul, back and back and far away.

Stumbling to her feet, she curled her hands into fists and marched to the very edge of the racing water.

Her hand knocked against her pocket, and she felt it.

The harmonica.

Her aunt’s.

A Collar’s.

Her aunt was dead.

Her mama.

She was next.

That was all there was to it.

She jammed her hand into her pocket, ripping out the instrument.

It was sharp against her hand, hard and unforgiving in the creases of her palm. 

She wanted to throw it.

Chuck it as far as she could. Launch it into the river and never see it again.

Her arm reared back.

She could throw it as far and wide as possible. Let it fade away like every other Collar in history. Become nothing. Not even a footnote.

Another poor nothing family that ended with a whimper. A matriline snuffed out like a candle. Extinguished like a pesky flame burnt to the end of the wick.

Once she was gone, that was it.

No more Collars.

No one to even give the harmonica to.

No one but her.

It was only her.

And, soon, she’d be gone too.

Because that’s all there was left for her to do.

Lip trembling, her arm dropped, tears blurring her vision. 

She staggered back, tripping into the trunk of a hearty tree. She slid down, the bark scraping at her back and shoulders. Her legs kicked out, and her heels crashed into the mud and sand.

She sucked in a shuddering breath and slammed the heel of her hand into her eye, trying to will away the sobs, to not let herself weep, to not break down.

Doing all she could to keep breathing, to not fall apart, Raelle could almost hear her mama’s voice, feel her hand on her shoulder, see her intense eyes and calm smile.

_It’s ok._

_You’re alright, girl._

_You’ll be alright._

Raelle brought her fist to her forehead, resting her elbow on her bent knee as she breathed in deeply. Breathed in and out. 

In and out.

Yelled at her heart to slow.

Her lungs to listen.

Her stomach to unclench.

_Willa eyed the harmonica in her daughter’s hands. Her mouth twitched slightly, the only sign that she noticed. Raelle twisted the small instrument between her palms, tapping it against her outstretched fingers._

_“You wrote you play now.” Willa finally spoke, catching Raelle’s attention from across the kitchen table._

_Raelle nodded, “Taught myself. Been workin’ on a few things. Nothin’ much.”_

_“Well, are you going to show me what you’ve learned?”_

_Raelle wet her lips, an eagerness tickling her, “Any requests?”_

_Her mama’s eyes softened, a hint of despair seeping in, “Your aunt always liked Shenandoah.”_

Raelle gazed at the instrument, the sound of the river echoing in her ears as she sniffed and brought the harmonica to her mouth, breath unsteady and shuddering as her hands shook.

The first note was off. Sharp. Hard.

Closing her eyes, Raelle breathed in through her nose and held it in her lungs, counting down, counting her heartbeats.

Then, she played the note again.

The words sang sweetly in her head as she wrapped her hands more firmly across the harmonica, breathing as the notes slung low and mournful

_Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you_

_'Way, you rolling river_

_Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you_

_'Way, I'm bound away_

_'Cross the wide Missouri_

_Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter_

_'Way, you rolling river_

_For her I cross your roaming waters_

_Away,_

_I'm bound away_

_'Cross the wide Missouri_ _._

* * *

Raelle was eighteen when she stepped off the bus at Fort Salem, wanting to be anywhere but there. Harmonica tucked safely away in her pocket, she trudged after the other recruits, hefting her bag further up her shoulder, her coat slipping down her arm in the bright spring sun.

Raelle was eighteen when she finally discovered that true love was not a guitar or a banjo or a harmonica. Not a note or a chord or a handful of lyrics. It wasn’t created in the strum of a string or decimated by the wail of a harp. It came in the form of a beautiful bewitching brunette with a gorgeous grin and hypnotizing eyes that put to shame any note she could pluck or make sing on any instrument.

Her heart mended with an impish smirk and endless blue eyes.

Raelle learned that the loveliest sound in the world wasn’t a hum or a vibrato or a melody. It was her name rolling off Scylla Ramshorn’s lips.

Scylla was the only song she ever wanted to hear.

Raelle learned what love could be.

What love really was.

_Lóù imé wèlá._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ok,” Scylla couldn’t stop her own smile from forming, “And...maybe you can tell me more about that harmonica. Play me something. Prove you’re actually a musician.”
> 
> “You’re doubting my music making skills?” Raelle playfully gasped.
> 
> “You’re a charmer, Collar. Might be trying to lure me in with a line.”
> 
> “I’d tell you I play guitar if I wanted to do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It happened again. A one-shot expanded. Sorry not sorry. (Maybe a little sorry)

It was early.

The sun barely peeked over the translucent heady horizon. Not even a strand of pink or orange threaded through the darkened sky. A grey morning mist had descended upon Fort Salem, coating the grounds like a blanket of dewey dreary fog, wet and withering. The windows were covered in a thin sheen of foggy condensation that blocked out any chance of sight. As if hot breaths had ghosted across and painted the glass with opaque clouds. The green of the trees and grass almost seemed to have turned into a bluish silver tinged spark of nature that hovered between two worlds. Day and night. Life and death. Wakefulness and sleep. A dreamy sort of place that called for those with open eyes to give in and succumb to the call of slumber. Nestle back under the blankets and let the promise of rest lull them into deep even breaths and away from the almost tender melancholy that carved into every nook and cranny of the infamous witches’ place.

Scylla rubbed the heel of her palm along the arch of her brow as the bed shifted and the warm body unwound from around her. A chilled aching emptiness scratched at her belly and side where a lazy arm had been slung and a hand hooked under her shirt to absently caress pale freckled skin with a dreamy unspoken sort of affection. The faint echo of fingertips teasing along the curve of her ribs tingled even after the touch slipped away, and the memory of the flat of a palm burned where there was nothing but unblemished planes. Lips brushed against the back of her shoulder in an apology and a greeting, the murky unwanted hint of a goodbye licking at the edges. The thin sheet ruffled softly, breaking the peaceful quiet that only existed in the tiny space of time between falling into bed exhausted and spent and the call of the bell that reminded all within reach of their sole purpose in life, the only reason they were born according to an ancient agreement signed hundreds of years ago. The subtle snap and crinkle of the cotton being untangled mixed with a mumbled curse that would have elicited a charmed bemused little smile if it didn’t signal her lover leaving. If it didn’t accompany a strange sense of loneliness she had battened down and hidden away until it was unwittingly freed by an eager flirtatious girl. A loneliness she thought she had replaced with purpose. With a cold detached anger and focus that burned like ice in her veins and hardened her heart and soul. Ice that was melting with each passing day she found herself in the company of Raelle Collar.

After a few seconds, the sheet was tossed free and followed by the gentlest of taps to the floor as bare feet slid across the creaky smooth ground, trying to not make a sound. She listened as Raelle stood and stretched her shoulder and spine before she padded across the room, silently shivering at the unexpected coldness floating in through the cracked window that skipped along a body still warm and soft from sleep.

The urge to reach out and stop her, to tug her back into bed and curl into her lean body, raced through Scylla like an electric shock. 

She mentally slapped at the switch, turning it off.

She couldn’t be needy. 

Not about anything.

Sucking her bottom lip between her teeth, Scylla inhaled deeply and turned onto her back, accepting the new day for what it was and all it would bring. The sun would soon rise. Soldiers would march and officers would plot. There was no stopping it. Not for anything, least of all to lose oneself in deep unquenchable kisses and wandering hands. In breathy laughter and playful nips. Throaty whispers and careful confessions. In hope and happiness. No, the world would never stop for that. 

Just like her mission wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t pause. Not over a girl with a rakish yet shy look that made the brunette’s heart clench painfully when she stared deep into blue eyes and felt the softly vowed oaths of affection and want and need seep through the cracks appearing along the creases of her frozen heart and ignite a warmth that had her seeking out weathered gentle hands and questioning if this is what she had been fighting for all along. Not for what a blue balloon in a mirror said or an older witch in a safehouse dictated and preached but...for the heartfelt grin that greeted her when she opened her door to a dusty disheveled blonde wanting to sneak in a quick kiss after a grueling training session. 

She found herself wondering about who Raelle Collar was...who Scylla Ramshorn was.

Wondered about so many things.

Wanted so many things.

Felt things she’d never felt before.

Feelings she couldn’t keep ignoring and pretending weren’t there.

Not when she found herself craving arms wrapped around her and soft breaths puffing against her skin as she fell asleep.

Scylla rose onto her elbows, the sheet tangled between her bare thighs and cascading along the stretch of her calves. Her grey t-shirt rode up a bit, revealing even more of her belly to the crispness of dawn.

Raelle looked beautiful in the morning glow.

The thought struck her hard. Like a swift slap to the face and punch to the gut that would have doubled her over if she didn’t bite down on her lip and use every ounce of self control drilled into her by dodger parents and sharp eyed Spree operatives to school her features into a bland look of mild interest.

This was happening more and more often.

Moments.

Moments where she forgot who she was and why she was there.

Forgot she wasn’t supposed to be falling for Raelle Collar. 

That Raelle Collar was only a mark. A mission. A job. 

Only a soldier she was supposed to recruit. Bring back to the Spree.

Just another wayward witch to be shown the light. To be molded and sent out to fight for liberation. For freedom.

Whose grief and pain and suffering could be turned into something useful. Something hard and dark and full of justice. Full of a cold splintering inferno of rage that would see to it that no more witches had to die. No more innocent witches had to sacrifice their lives the moment they were born because of a mark on their skin and the legacy of their mother.

Raelle was meant to be Spree.

She wasn’t meant to be a charming roguish woman with a slight drawl that grew thick when she was on the verge of sleep and eyes the color of the summer sky, endless and true. Eyes that wordlessly beckoned Scylla with promises of care and life and hope. Of a future. Of safety and comfort. Understanding. Of so many things that all added up to one word Scylla could not utter. Not if she wanted to survive this. 

No.

No, Raelle was not meant to be the person who looked at Scylla like she mattered. Like she meant something. Like she was cared about. Cared for.

She wasn’t meant to be soft or strong or loyal or sweet.

She wasn’t meant to appear in Scylla’s dreams. Holding her hand. Kissing her knuckles. Making promises neither could ever keep.

She wasn’t meant to slip into her thoughts. The flash of blonde braids interrupting Scylla’s writing as she scanned her notes. The reminder of a dumb joke that still made Scylla laugh with how corny it was popping up while Izadora lectured about the proper method to extract certain materials from a rather deadly poisonous plant. 

She wasn’t supposed to make Scylla’s heart flutter when she wrapped her arms around her. Make her breath catch when she kissed her. Make her think about things that Scylla never allowed herself to think about before.

Raelle Collar wasn’t supposed to be anything.

Yet, there were moments where Scylla forgot about that.

Moments where Raelle Collar was everything.

And, that might be the worst thing of all.

Because…

Because Scylla was fighting in honor of the only two people she ever knew to be in love.

Her parents were killed because they refused to give their lives for people who hated them. Refused to fight and die for civilians who would rather see a witch gone than alive and happy.

Her parents had been in love.

They had been together. Chosen each other. 

Chosen each other over anything and everything else except the daughter they welcomed and cherished and adored.

Witches didn’t get to be in love.

They didn’t get to have relationships. Families. Futures.

Not while slavery still existed. Not when they had to pretend like their lives meant nothing beyond sacrifices for civilians.

All love gave anyone was heartbreak.

Yet, sometimes Scylla looked at Raelle, and she could remember her father’s giggle as her mom playfully tickled his sides while he hugged her. Could remember her mother’s content smile as she explained to a curious young Scylla what family and love and _choosing someone_ meant.

Shaking her head and quickly blinking those thoughts away, locking the pain deep down in a place no one could touch, Scylla pasted a lazy smirk on her face. The smirk dipped into a genuine grin when Raelle hopped around, trying to pull one sock on and not stumble over her own feet.

Goddess, she could be such a dork sometimes.

Letting her gaze roam over the half dressed girl, Scylla swallowed roughly against the warmth that flooded her chest. 

A warmth that was more cozy than cunning.

Clearing her throat, she narrowed her eyes as Raelle flipped her uniform jacket on, the flaps whipping around and the back of the collar getting crooked and bent over. Her fingers itched to fix it, and, before she knew she was moving, the sheet was left behind, her feet guiding her to stand in front of curious eyes that held a sort of tenderness that Scylla had to ignore otherwise she would find herself trapped in another moment.

She couldn’t afford to keep having those moments. 

Reaching up, she fiddled with the collar, hands grazing the slope of the fixer’s neck.

Raelle shuddered at the touch, licking her lips, “Thanks.”

“Can’t have you failing inspection.” Scylla murmured, eyebrow quirking, “Unless you want me to give you one right now. I guarantee you’ll pass. But,” her hand dragged down the front of Raelle’s shirt, skimming along the side of her breast and resting against the flat of her belly, “you might have to work for it, private.”

Raelle exhaled, half cocky half full of an emotion Scylla refused to acknowledge, “Thought I worked for it last night. I remember you being very happy with my performance.”

“Maybe you should remind me. Practice makes perfect. Train, train, train. Isn’t that what Tally says you do all day?”

Raelle leaned into her, mouth hovering so close to Scylla’s lips the brunette could feel her words like phantom kisses, right there but just out of reach, “Maybe I should.” Her eyes slowly changed from the bright blue of a cloudless summer sky to the darkening dip of the horizon, falling further and further until they were the darkest depths of the sea, swirls of black and midnight navy, “For the good of the unit.”

Scylla’s fingers dug and twisted in the front of Raelle’s black shirt, holding her steady and tugging her in. Their noses bumped, rubbing softly as Scylla felt the familiar grin draw near her own smirk.

The second their lips touched, Scylla forgot this wasn’t real.

Lips, sweeter than candy and softer than the rolling sea, pressed firmly yet reverently against her own. She felt them suck lightly against her bottom lip, a tongue trace the edge and calloused hands cradle her cheeks. Hungry yet slow, needy yet worshipful, Raelle kissed her in a way no one ever kissed her. No boy or girl that ever shared her bed or reached for her hand made her feel like this.

She tipped over into a moment without warning, without care.

She kissed her girl back. Met her need with want. Her longing with yearning. Her worshipping with silent prayers.

Her hand slid along Raelle’s hip, nudging her fully against her. Her palm slid up, skipping along until it bumped into something that wasn’t bare skin or a creased uniform.

Frowning at the sudden jolt against her hand, Scylla broke the kiss, brow unwittingly furrowing and mouth pinching slightly.

Raelle dazedly blinked her eyes open, “Scyl?”

“What’s that?”

“Hmm, what’s what?” Raelle rubbed the pad of her thumb along the blush of her cheek.

Scylla tilted her head, forehead settling against Raelle’s as she glanced down. Something small was sticking out of Raelle’s jacket pocket. 

Scylla chuckled to herself, “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” The old movie flashed in her mind, a favorite of one of the dodger families that traveled with her own for a year.

A year when she was young and innocent and could watch old movies without wondering if this was the moment her family would be caught. Without knowing that the civilians on screen truly hated her and her kind. How far that hate would go.Would take from her.

How much she had to lose.

Raelle’s thumb stilled, voice full of confusion, “What?”

Scylla pulled back slightly and nodded at Raelle’s pocket, “What’s in your pocket?”

“Oh.” Raelle fumbled with the object, plucking it out with a sheepish grin that made Scylla want to kiss her again and forget about weird things that she didn’t remember being there before, “It’s...it’s a harp.”

“That’s not a harp.” Scylla wasn’t a musician, but she knew what a harp looked like.

Raelle rolled her eyes, “Not a harp harp. It’s…” she held it up, “a harmonica.”

It was.

Small enough to fit in Raelle’s hand, the metal cover plate gleamed in the rising sun’s rays. The edges were worn and her fingerprints smudged it a bit, but the beaten instrument was exactly that.

Raelle had a harmonica.

Since when did Raelle have a harmonica?

As if sensing her girlfriend’s thoughts, Raelle moved back a step, toying with the instrument in her hands and shuffling her feet a bit, “Yeah. I usually keep it in my pouch, but I was running late and slipped it into my pocket.”

Scylla nodded, trying to follow, “You play?”

The crooked toothy smile that winked at her made her want to know everything about this girl, “Yeah. A bit.”

“You never told me you played.”

“Never came up.”

“Do you play often?” Bellweather would hate that. She could see it now.

“No.” Raelle shrugged, “It’s...no.”

There was something in her voice, in the tenseness of her body, that told Scylla there was something more there. Something that might be locked up tight deep inside.

Raelle had her own pain and secrets.

She was funny. Charming. Affable.

But, Scylla had seen the darkness swirling in her eyes. Felt the barely suppressed anger. The grief. The sorrow. 

She’d seen the wounded animal within.

Just like she knew, somehow some way, Raelle had seen the hurting and tattered soul inside of her.

“Ok.” Scylla reached for her hand, her palm resting on top of Raelle’s, “Tell me about your harmonica, Raelle Collar.”

The twitch of her fingers and the flicker in her gaze belied her words, “Not much to tell.” She swallowed, “Got it when I was younger. My dad gave it to me. It..it was my aunt’s. She played. Dad said a harmonica could be taken anywhere. Even here. So, if I wanted to play something, I could always have this on me.” 

Scylla watched her shoulders dip a fraction.

There was something else.

She waited patiently, almost hearing Raelle gather her thoughts.

“I didn’t get to meet my aunt. She died when I was little. And, mama was gone a lot. Don’t think she played, but it still...it’s been a Collar thing. I think. It’s something I can keep that’s ours. And, playing it...it helps, sometimes.”

“Helps what?”

Another listless shrug. Her thumb slid under the harmonica and pressed into the center of her palm, “Everything.”

Scylla blinked. Blue eyes met hers, full of so many emotions yet all she could see was a nervous kid with cracks around the edges and shattered parts barely taped back together.

Taking a breath, Raelle shook it off, the glimpse into her soul disappearing behind a shine, “I’m waiting for the perfect moment to scare the hell out of Abigail with it. Don’t tell.”

Scylla rolled her eyes at the wink her girl sent her, “Ruin my plans. I was about to go get tea with High Atlantic and discuss perfect posture and medal shining tips.”

“Good luck dragging her away from her schedule.” She peeked at her watch, “She should be about two minutes into her allotted ten minute bathroom time.”

A distant chime echoed into the room.

First bell.

“Speaking of…” Scylla trailed off as Raelle swayed back, tucking the harmonica securely in her pocket.

“I’m getting breakfast with Tally and Abigail.” Raelle chewed on her lip for a moment before, “Want to come with?”

“To breakfast?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing marvelous. Coffee. Cereal. Juice. Maybe a muffin or apple if you’re feeling extra adventurous.”

Scylla looked at her.

Raelle looked back, her cheeks turning a tiny shade of pink but otherwise secure. Strong. 

She wanted Scylla to join them.

It wasn’t being playful or joking or trying to be nice.

“You want me to have breakfast with your unit? Isn’t it a unit unity thing?”

“They won’t mind,” off Scylla’s glance, “ok, Tally won’t mind. Glory will probably join us too. Abigail will last a few minutes before she goes barking after Libba.” Raelle ran her hands along the outside of her trousers, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Your pace. I meant that. But, you’re welcome to come.”

Scylla wanted to.

She wanted to fold her hand into Raelle’s and walk with her across campus. Help get them both bowls of cereal while Raelle poured them cups of coffee. Settle in, feel Raelle next to her as they ate. Listen to Raelle talk to her friends. Hold her hand underneath the table. Clean up and go to their respective training sessions with a parting goodbye kiss.

She wanted that.

And, it scared her.

“It’s ok.” Raelle held up her hands, “Forget about it. It’s fine.”

“Raelle,”

“Meet after dinner?” Raelle continued. “I’ll drop by?”

Scylla snagged the bottom of her shirt, using it to pull Raelle close, “I like you.”

Raelle’s mouth twitched, “Considering what I did to you last night…”

“I like you.” Scylla cut her off. Serious. 

Raelle’s mouth snapped shut. Her attempt at levity evaporated.

“I want to be with you.”

“I know.” Raelle assured her. “No pressure, Scylla. Take as long as you need.”

Scylla inhaled deeply, the air rushing out of her lungs slowly, “Dinner.”

“Ok?” Raelle wasn’t following.

“Can I join you guys for dinner?”

“Oh... _oh_...yeah, of course.” Raelle nodded quickly. 

“Ok,” Scylla couldn’t stop her own smile from forming, “And...maybe you can tell me more about that harmonica. Play me something. Prove you’re actually a musician.”

“You’re doubting my music making skills?” Raelle playfully gasped.

“You’re a charmer, Collar. Might be trying to lure me in with a line.”

“I’d tell you I play guitar if I wanted to do that.”

Her heart stuttered involuntarily, the image of light maple and the whisper of a gentle humming voice swept through her mind, a mere flicker of a memory, “Do you?”

“Ask me at dinner.”

* * *

It was late.

The moon cast a glittering silvery glow like a pale hand caressing all it touched with a gentle and comforting embrace as it sloped through the room. The white shine made her think of beaches and starlight as it painted her slumbering lover’s face, an eerie incandescent glimmer winking and sparkling like rippling water as it danced across smooth eyebrows and meandered down a relaxed cheek. 

Scylla let her gaze hover on Raelle’s face, watching as she breathed in deeply before exhaling slowly, even and peaceful, a light easy rhythm that was almost melodic in the rise and fall of her chest, bare beneath the rumpled dripping bedsheet, the curve of a breast hinting in the darkness and a shoulder shifting ever so slightly as the arm snug around her waist slipped down to rest along the arch of her hip. The hold was warm. Tender. Sleepy yet she could feel the closeness of her girl. Feel her touch. Raelle always touched her with emotion. Passion. Fervor. Need. Want.

Awe. 

Adoration.

Trust.

Hope.

She could playfully tickle her fingers as they held hands walking back to Scylla’s dorm or press her down into the mattress with so much intent all Scylla could do was kiss her with everything she had.

Touched her with hands that she now knew cradled more than just her face and body. Hands that could pluck more than heartstrings and draw out more than gasps and wordless confessions.

_Their hands swung lightly between them, shoulders bumping casually yet with an air of impish affection as their feet guided them along the well worn path leading away from Circe Barracks._

_Raelle wet her lips, most likely tasting the remnants of the chocolate pudding that had been provided for dessert in the mess hall that evening. Her eyes stayed forward, taking in the slowly changing colors of the horizon blanketing the background behind imposing stoic brick buildings and armored trucks. The brilliant pinks and purples a sharp contrast to the muted iron and stone. The corners of her mouth twitched as she spoke, hints of subdued sadness intermingling with a touch of humor and a tinge of thoughtful care._

_“He tried to teach me this one song. Can’t even remember it now. Something really sad, I think. But, I wanted to be able to play something that would cheer my mama up when she got home. Made him teach me something else.” A scoff, “He taught me how to play that kid’s song ‘If You’re Happy and You Know It.’” A roll of the eyes, “Didn’t even figure it out till I was sitting in front of my parents and my dad laughed forever about it. Still teases me sometimes. Tells me to go play that happy song.” Her jaw twitched, “Think that was actually the last one I played for my mom.”_

_Scylla glanced over at her. The setting sun cast shadows across her face, the dark and light battling on the Cession’s skin. Raelle caught her eye and smiled, offering a tiny wink as the shadows faded, “Was always told I have talented hands, though.”_

_Scylla chuckled, teeth snagging her bottom lip, “Talented enough to make me clap?”_

_“If you think you can still move after.”_

_"Put on a show for me, Collar."_

Scylla swallowed thickly, hand lifting and floating above the arm keeping her safe, even in sleep.

It had not been an easy night. 

It never was. 

Not this night.

Scylla wanted to be left alone.

She always wanted to be alone on this night.

But, Raelle had shown up. Freshly showered and grinning after a day running the obstacle courses and windstriking holes through metal walls.

She didn’t know what today was.

Didn’t know why this date on the calendar haunted the brunette.

That Scylla was even haunted at all. Eyes dim and heart aching. Broken. Soul crushed yet calling out for something, anything, to fill the hole left in its wake.

Raelle knew nothing, because Scylla didn’t tell her.

Couldn’t tell her.

Sometimes she wanted so badly to let the words slip out. Sometimes wished Raelle would never know.

Sometimes wanted to be held so tightly that she could disappear into the strong caring embrace. Sometimes remembered blue balloons and quiet garages and that this wasn’t meant to last. Wasn’t meant to be anything more than a means to an end.

Sometimes wanted Raelle to never stop looking at her the way she did when Scylla opened the door to her.

Sometimes wondered if Raelle would ever look at her that way if she knew the truth. The whole truth.

Either way, Raelle was there. Scrubbed and smiling. Eyes full of promises and hands offering a soft supplication Scylla could never refuse.

Scylla found herself stepping aside, accepting the kiss to her cheek as Raelle plucked out a few contraband candy bars from her pocket.

A special treat she’d snuck in for them to share.

Scylla couldn’t tell her as she settled on the bed, removing her jacket and looking so beautiful in the lamplight.

Couldn’t send her away.

Couldn’t turn away from the tenderness nudging her heart.

Now, here she was, lying in bed next to the blonde who brought her candy bars and kissed her until all Scylla could taste was chocolate and sweetness while hands drifted under her shirt and fought with her belt.

Lying next to the girl who she was supposed to bring to the Spree soon. 

A girl who trusted her enough to fall asleep in her arms. 

Trust.

Scylla felt the bolt of pain like a knife to the chest. Dagger aimed directly at her still beating heart.

Her mouth wobbled, and she pressed her lips together firmly. 

She was fine.

She wasn’t going to cry.

There were no more tears left.

Not after all these years.

Yet, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel the dusty damp cold of the concrete floor. Hear the shuffling of feet and the raising of voices.

Hear the military police storm through her home. 

Hear her parents last moments.

She refused to close her eyes. 

Refused to relive this day like she did every year since their deaths. Their murders.

Her body ached to rest, but she couldn’t.

She couldn’t give in.

Couldn’t succumb to the nightmares. 

Nightmares that were sometimes full of death.

Nightmares that sometimes were disguised as dreams. Dreams about days full of mirthful jokes and laughter. Watching her parents cook dinner together. Playing cards with them. Feeling her mother hug her close and tell her she loved her. Being tucked into bed as a small child. Visiting the playground and having her dad push her swing higher and higher until she soared. Bickering over directions in the car. Slurping milkshakes at a pitstop on the way to their new home.

Those were the worst nightmares of all, because, when she woke up, they were gone.

That life was gone.

Her family was gone.

Ripped away from her. Stolen. Her fears and mistrust in civilians and the military proved true.

So very very true.

If she closed her eyes, she didn’t know what would be worse. Finding herself back in that garage or finding herself on the couch in the living room, cuddled between her parents, the television tuned to a funny sitcom that drew out hearty laughs from all of them.

If she closed her eyes, she’d see those she lost.

If she kept them open...she’d see the one she could lose.

“Scyl?” Raelle mumbled, nudging closer, hand languidly smoothing along the flat of her spine. Her nose dipped into the crook of the older witch’s neck, tickling and comforting as lips lazily pressed against her skin. 

Scylla inhaled silently, mentally forcing her voice to remain calm, neutral, “Go back to sleep, Raelle.”

“Mmm, wha’s wrong?” Raelle’s eyes fluttered open into tiny cute little slits. She pulled back slightly, faces inches apart as they shared a pillow, the hints of blue drowsy and unfocused yet still able to grab on to Scylla’s heart.

Scylla shook her head, swallowed back the thoughts, “Nothing.”

Raelle squinted and stared.

One tick of the clock.

Two.

Three.

As the fourth tick passed, Raelle closed her eyes and tugged Scylla's hips until the brunette shuffled close enough her face became hidden in the inviting spot that made up Raelle’s neck and shoulder. Fingertips danced along each vertebrae of her spine, tapping and soothing. 

Scylla felt the first hitch in her breath as Raelle’s voice rumbled, “You’re ok.”

_You’re ok._

Scylla locked her jaw and closed her eyes at the simple declaration.

_You’re ok._

She sucked in a sharp breath, hands unconsciously fisting in the sheet wrapped around them, bunching the material along the blonde’s side and back. 

The words dripped out like a leaky faucet, like the snow slowly melting, trickles turning to rivers turning to waterfalls.

“My parents were killed today.”

The hand paused on her back for another tick of the clock before resuming its gentle ministrations, rubbing soft circles and tracing various shapes.

“They…” Scylla swallowed roughly, words scraping against the inside of her throat like sandpaper, “they were nice. Happy. We were happy.” In the dark, surrounded by her lover’s arms, she let the thoughts and memories finally be released from their shackled confines within her soul. Let them break through the anger and grief and need for vengeance that coated the moments trapped in time. Protected her. Let her continue on without tears or hopelessness. 

The anger and hate that gave her purpose. Something to hold on to when she was falling into an abyss.

Anger and hate that weakened when she found herself adrift in blue eyes and gentle hands.

The same hands smoothing along her back, wordless whispers trapped in a touch.

“My mom played, too.” She sniffed, “She had a guitar we brought with us wherever we went. It wasn't fancy. It was made of oak, and she used to carry it in this big case dad bought for her when they first started dating. My dad always joked about how...how he couldn’t hold a tune, but he could hold her, and that was close enough.” Her mom always teased that he was lucky he was cute since his jokes were as bad as his singing.

Her parents loved each other.

They were in love.

They were free.

“My mom...she...she used to play for me. Sometimes. She,” a wet huff, “there was this song. I can’t even remember it. It was silly. Childish. But...she played it when we...when we went to the beach once. I loved it. Asked her to play it every time she...she got out the guitar.”

“What was it about?”

“The sea.” Her mouth shook, “The sea and a dragon and adventure.” Her brow dipped, “Freedom. Happiness.”

Wishes. Hopes. Dreams.

A fantasy she clung to.

Just like she clung to Raelle now.

“Sounds like a good song.”

“Yes. It was.” A lump formed in her throat.

Raelle’s hand slipped up to cup the back of her neck. She began to hum under her breath. A mindless little tune with no rhyme or reason.

Scylla listened, forgetting this wasn’t meant to be real and letting herself feel the love washing over her.

Let herself drift off to a dream filled sleep where she twirled and spun, dancing with Raelle until their feet hurt and they collapsed into each other, laughing and kissing like fools in love.

Two teenagers carefree in a world where they weren’t hated or scorned or facing death.

Two kids.

Happy.

* * *

A knock sounded resoundly at the door, drawing Scylla out of the book she’d been reading, sore tired eyes bleary with exhaustion. She was so close to figuring out this piece of Work. A simple ‘ _S_ ’ on the palm. Simple yet complicated.

Like so many things in her life.

Like so many things linked with Raelle.

Simple. Complicated.

She glanced down at her watch, blinking as her eyes worked to adjust and focus on the tiny ticking hands.

It was late.

Too late for anyone to be visiting.

The knock sounded again.

Rising to her feet and ambling over, Scylla ran a hand through her hair and silently mused at who was there. Most likely one of her neighbors up late, as well, studying and needing something. Or someone was sleep walking and got locked out of their room or lost.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Her eyes automatically darted to the mirror. Empty. No blue balloon in sight.

She unconsciously rubbed at her throat.

A part of her secretly hoped it wasn’t another visit from the Spree.

From the people she once saw as her own. The people she was beginning to question.

Beginning to wonder what they wanted with her girlfriend.

If Raelle would be safe with them.

If she could take the other girl somewhere safe. Not Fort Salem or a Spree safehouse.

Somewhere only they knew.

Somewhere they could be free. Alone. Just them. No more fighting or running or hiding.

Somewhere they could live.

Be happy.

Letting out a little yawn, she turned the knob and opened the door, resting one hand on the back of it to balance herself and stop anyone from trying to make their way in, using her entire body to block the small crack she allowed between the wall and the edge of the door.

Instead of a wayward student or instructor, she came face to face with a bright eyed and nearly bouncing Raelle Collar.

“Raelle? What are you doing here? Are you ok?” The blonde had muttered earlier about not being able to stop by that night. Something to do with Tally. It had been disappointing. Really disappointing. But, Scylla understood. 

Unit Unity, as Raelle grumbled sometimes, pretending she didn’t care about her two unit mates.

Raelle had to be with her unit. Scylla got that.

Didn’t mean her bed didn’t feel empty.

That she noticed how being away from Raelle made everything feel colder. Darker. 

“I’m fine. Everything is ok.” Raelle replied, “Close your eyes.”

Scylla quirked an eyebrow at the fixer’s random words, “What?”

“Your eyes. Close ‘em.” Raelle nodded at her, pleasant smile with a hint of mischief adorning her lips.

Scylla stared at her curiously. What was the other girl playing at? “Raelle.”

“Please?” The smile dropped away, a gentle earnestness threaded with self-conscious worry replacing it on the tip of her tongue, “Just...for a minute. I promise, it’s ok.”

Scylla sighed, “It’s late Raelle.” Really late. Late enough that the moon would be winking at the sun before too long.

“I know.” Raelle bit her lip, “Let me show you something beautiful.”

Scylla blinked at the familiar words paired with the loving tone. Gulping, she gave a short nod and closed her eyes.

“Thank you.” brushed against her ear as Raelle eased into the room. A kiss pressed to her cheek as the sound of the door shutting reverberated in the twilight. Night cooled hands slowly touched her hips, pressing gently until she found herself backed up to her bed and carefully lowered onto the thin mattress. 

“Raelle?”

“Almost ready.” the hands disappeared, “Relax, Scyl. I swear, you have nothing to worry about ok? I promise.”

All Scylla could do was believe her.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Raelle ordered, the sounds of her moving around making Scylla even more curious about what was about to happen.

Settling back on the bed, Scylla offered a smirk, “Am I going to need a safe word?”

“What?” Raelle took a second to catch up, “No! Not...no. Just…” a sigh, “trust me.”

“Ok,” she let her head rest on the pillow, letting the veneer of playfulness drift away. A veneer that hid the loud thumping of her heart.

Because she did trust Raelle. Trusted her in a way she never trusted anyone else. 

A trust where she would do whatever it took to make Raelle happy.

“Ok,” Raelle cleared her throat, “Now...this is probably going to be bad. It’s been a while, and it got a bit banged up in the mail and sneaking it in.” There was a thump, “Tally and Glory helped a bit. I’m not sure if this is right, so you’re going to have to tell me, ok? It was the closest I could figure out.”

“Raelle?” what was she talking about? She snuck something in? “What…”

Scylla’s heart stopped with the first strum of the guitar.

The tears came with the second flick of fingertips against the strings.

Her entire world narrowed to the melodic sounds floating around her.

This was it.

This was the song.

She could already hear the flapping of a seagull’s wings and feel the shifting sand under her.

The sun glinted off the wood of the guitar, sparkled along the frets.

An almost imperceptible hum joined in with the notes before a voice quiet enough to creep into her heart and never leave began to sing.

_“Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea_

_And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Hanalei_

_Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff_

_And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff_

_Oh, Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea_

_And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Hanalei_

_Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea_

_And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Hanalei”_

A hand slapped against Scylla’s mouth as a sob bubbled in the back of her throat, curdled in her belly, and burned the corners of her eyes. Her lashes screwed shut tighter, stars forming across the backs of her eyelids that were soon replaced with images of a curly haired woman with glasses and a delighted spark in her wink as the ocean waves lapped at the edge of the beach, guitar perched in her lap and glittering like the tips of the rolling water. Her father bobbed his head along to the music as he joined in every now and then, his deep baritone voice melding with his wife’s higher tenor. The sun was warm on their faces, the breeze, full of salt and tranquility, ruffled their hair and tickled Scylla’s pink tinged cheeks that hurt as her smile pulled at them.

_“Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail_

_Jackie kept a lookout perch on Puff's gigantic tail_

_Noble kings and princes would bow whenever they came_

_Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name”_

The tears fell down her cheeks, memories turning to droplets that stained her face and gathered on the pillow. Her stomach clenched with pain but also...with happiness. Her lips trembled, and she jammed the tips of her fingers into her brow as a whimper broke free.

The strumming continued, but Raelle’s voice disappeared. Fingers tripped, a wrong note, the beat lost. “Scyl?”

“Don’t stop.” Scylla begged, voice shattering with a sob. “Please,”

This was the song.

The song her mother sang on the beach.

The song she hadn’t heard in years.

“Ok,” Raelle whispered. 

The vision of her parents played over and over, their laughter and the crashing of the sea mingling in Scylla’s mind. 

Her breath hitched as she felt Raelle crawl over and huddle on the floor against the edge of the bed. She shakily let her hand fall, connecting with the rumpled jacket draped across her shoulders. Her fingers curled into the material, holding her close as the tune continued.

Raelle didn’t stop playing until long after the sun rose, changing the song every now and then, but always coming back to the little childhood lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you all think? Should have left it at one chapter? It was decent? What even was that song choice?
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment letting me know! You all are aware of the drill. 1 cookie for reading. 2 for reading and kudos. A billion cookies for reading and commenting.
> 
> PS: Feel free to check out Peter, Paul & Mary singing this little tune.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis seven long years since last I've seen you
> 
> And hear your roaming river
> 
> 'Tis seven long years since last I've seen you
> 
> Away, we're bound away
> 
> 'Cross the wide Missouri”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This better be the final chapter. It got long, folks. Hope you enjoy!

Pvt. First Class Raelle Collar was eighteen the last time she sang.

Pvt. First Class Raelle Collar was eighteen the last time a Cession melody slipped past her lips and tickled the tip of her tongue.

Fire crackling and embers smoldering and nipping at booted heels resting near the burning sticks, tiny red and bright orange flakes sparked as they danced up into the air like fireflies, floating away never to be seen again. Raelle leaned back exhaustedly against her pack. Tired eyes watched the way the smaller sticks slowly disappeared and the flames danced to the faint chorus of the dry wind, flickering with each beat of the land’s pulse, earth and air combining to sing a gentle tune that brushed against her ear like a lover’s caress.

The rest had fallen asleep. Abigail was turned on her side, eyes closed and breaths even, curled up with her knees tucked into her chest. Tally was on her back, head lolled to the side and thin blanket dropping from where it had been pulled up to her chin. The biddies had long since joined the world of dreams. Adil was near Abigail, his slumbering hand reaching for her, offering comfort and solid support even in the dark.

The only souls awake around the small camp were Bridey, the stoic soldier keeping watch in the distance, and General Alder, the leader lost in her own thoughts, gaze and mind far from the flames licking at the sky, creeping tendrils of light drawing closer and closer to the dirt, soon to die away without another breath of life in the form of wood or care.

Raelle rubbed her thumb in the palm of her hand and worried her bottom lip as she blinked. She looked away from the campfire to stare up at the starry night sky. She blinked again, the inky blackness a sharp contrast to the contained inferno. The stars twinkled and winked down at her. For a brief moment, she could pretend she was back home. In the Cession. Sitting in the fields, dry and brittle after another long dusty summer with no rain to fill the creek or water the golden and decayed grasses, and watching the moon make its way across the sky. If she concentrated, she could hear the subtle buzz of the crickets and the call of a stray dog. The whoop of an owl and the flutter of the grass as the breeze tickled the tall stalks. 

Slowly, she reached into the pouch still strapped to her thigh. Her fingertips skimmed along the odds and ends hastily packed inside. She felt the crisp folds of her mama’s letter. The crumbs of a MRE that had broken apart during the march through the desert. Her touch trickled along until she felt it. Bumped against the somehow cool yet comfortingly warm edge of her harmonica. She ran her finger along the smooth top before dipping along the sides, pads sneaking into the tiny holes that called to be breathed into, to be brought to life with a gentle hum. 

Staring up at the sky, Raelle pulled the instrument out and let it rest in her hand. Holding it close to her chest, she let the feel of it bring a sense of peace in the small pocket of calm that had somehow found her in this foreign land. Her mind wanted to drift. To think about her sisters stuck there with her on a dangerous and potentially deadly mission. Tally’s heartbreak and tears at being deployed, at being shown her trust and faith in the world and the army she was led to believe was righteous and true, were misplaced. Abigail’s hardened eyes as she rode next to her on the plane, making one of the most difficult decisions she would ever face - choosing her unit over herself. Choosing to follow two people who had become her family above War College, the prestigious path she had dreamt of since the moment she was born, had been taught was the only true future for a Bellweather. She wanted to think of Anacostia. Grim and holding her emotions in check as she said goodbye to them. The hint of a deeper concern and care masked behind a cold countenance that was broken by the memory of her sitting beside Raelle as the blonde cried over her lover.

Her lover.

Scylla.

Raelle swallowed thickly.

Scylla, who was a lie. 

Who told her things that weren’t true. Lied to her about everything.

Who was sent to recruit Raelle. To bring her to the Spree.

Who didn’t approach Raelle because she wanted her but because she was told to.

Scylla.

Who told her she loved her.

Who danced with her at the wedding.

Who was being sent to prison.

Scylla.

Who Raelle still loved.

Who caused Raelle’s entire body to ache and call out for her if the fixer allowed herself to think of her. To picture her eyes. Her smile. To hear her laugh, rare yet more beautiful than any melody Raelle had ever heard. Her voice, sultry yet soft. Gentle and sarcastic. Loving yet full of lies.

Scylla.

Anacostia said she did love Raelle. That part was real.

Raelle knew Scylla wasn’t all bad. She couldn’t be.

Her mind flashed a glimpse, a small remembrance, behind her eyes and projected up into the midnight sky.

The last time she played a guitar.

Sitting by Scylla’s bed, carefully plucking out the notes she’d done her best to memorize, staying up all night once she thought she’d figured out the song, drilling each chord into her mind until she could recite them in her sleep. 

The way Scylla held on to her as she played the song. 

That wasn’t fake.

The way Scylla kissed her that morning. The way she held her hand and looked at her every day after wasn’t fake.

The way she whispered she loved her, no matter what, wasn’t fake.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

So many thoughts wanted to overtake her mind.

Her dad, near tears but doing everything he could to put on a brave face as they hugged for the last time.

The words her mama wrote in that letter. Her last. The final message she wanted to share with her daughter.

Abigail.

Tally.

Anacostia.

Scylla.

Always Scylla.

“The Cession has always been known for its music.”

Raelle was abruptly brought out of her thoughts by a voice, strong yet quiet. Somber in its lack of emotions. Looking over, she saw General Alder watching her, studying her.

Clearing her throat, Raelle sat up. She dropped the harmonica to her side, “Ma’am?”

The General almost smiled at her, a lightness in her gaze that was matched by a more sedate sorrowful flash, “Cessions are well known for their songs. Ever since the Cession was formed, even before, music has been strong with the families from there.” She nodded, “I know of many units who have coveted having a Cession for the chance to hear a song while they rested.” The corners of her eyes tightened in remembrance, “Collar, correct? I recall a Collar. Incredibly brave. Respected. Was a terrible loss. Her commanding officer mentioned how she played music to comfort the injured she tended to.”

Raelle wet her lips and peeked down at her hand holding the harmonica.

The harmonica that once belonged to her aunt.

“I remember the last time I was in the Cession.” Alder’s eyes grew darker, the lines around her mouth more pensive, “It was a long time ago. There was a song they sang. About a hanging tree. The moment I heard it, I knew I would never forget it. No witch who heard it would ever forget it.”

Raelle let her eyes drift to the tips of her boots, the fire dying quickly now. Nothing more than glowing ash.

She knew the song.

Had felt it in her soul the moment it first reached her ears.

Taking a deep breath, her mouth worked a few seconds, unsure yet she could feel the heaviness of her leader’s presence, her thoughts.

The words flowed out carefully, quietly. A hum. A prayer. A warning. A memory. 

_“Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where the dead man called out_

_For his love to flee_

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met at midnight_

_In the hanging tree”_

She took a breath, the words echoing in the silence that surrounded them. Chin quivering and lashes twitching, Raelle gripped the harmonica tightly as she continued, a haunting phantom siren appearing in the flames. Words whispered in her ear on the invisible wind. Words about dodgers and death. About loss. About family and heartbreak. About beaches and lighthouses. About a family tree that ended with her and a family tree that was complicated. About burnings and Accords and slavery by another name. Ghosts and dreams. Funerals and death. Life and hope.

About a past, a history, that spoke of sadness and tears. 

About a family of three down to two.

About falling in love.

About a future that refused to reveal itself, but swirled dark and foreboding.

_“Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where I told you to run_

_So we'd both be free_

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met at midnight_

_In the hanging tree”_

* * *

Pvt. First Class Raelle Collar was nineteen when she stopped playing.

She was nineteen when the music left her.

When the only song she ever wanted to sing was gone and the itch in her fingers and ache in her heart was overcome by the brokenness of her soul and the walls of her mind.

It was quiet.

Empty.

Not a sound to be heard besides the slight shuffle of her own boots across the aged and scuffed wooden floor and the crackle of her dusty sweat soaked uniform as her body swayed forward further into the small room. The air was still, deathly so, tepid and suffocating while tasteless and bland. A haze like the thick air outside that felt heavy on the shoulders and weighed down the soldiers like an invisible woolen blanket dropped without warning or fanfare on their stumbling scoured bodies.

Raelle tiredly unhooked the scourge from her belt, the coiled leather slick and warm in her grasp, the buzz from training and faint hum of Work still woven into and desperately clinging to the intricate craftsmanship. Her hands were sore and red, rubbed almost raw along her palms and the insides of her fingers. Calluses had grown thicker and harder, a bleak bare protection that blocked her from feeling the whip of the scourge or the bite of the battle. The edges of her sleeves were still damp with sweat and shards of wood and stone that had jaggedly flown through the air as the drills became more intense. A tiny prick of blood stained the dark fiber, remnants of a brutal hit and even more crushing fall. She could still hear the crack of bone and taste the sticky hot blood that, upon sight or smell or feel, now made her mind shut off and her body take over.

Triggered into action. 

A defense mechanism, a small voice sounded in the back of her head.

She didn’t let herself be aware of the moment until it was long past.

Until she was safe from it all.

Until there was no chance of finding herself back in that desert. 

Hot, and dirty, and unable to move as her life trickled out of the wound in back.

Her mind shut down and her training took over. She could barely say what had happened except she’d survived a few rounds and received high enough marks to not warrant a comment or condemnation.

As long as she kept it to herself, kept working, kept her mind free and clear of distractions, she was fine.

She would be fine if she didn’t think about it. Any of it.

Not about a frightened little boy sick and dying. Not about one sister lying besides her unwilling and unable to move, while the other drifted away. Not about chains and dark basements and a smile that promised love and heartbreak in the same breath. Not about a woman with her eyes and her last name who had a few more wrinkles and a lot more prideful will and life in her than Raelle ever imagined. Not about Anacostia and Scylla, their faces the only warning she got before stepping into the unknown. Into a world where nothing made sense and lies were all that she could count on.

A sharp phantom pain in her back and through her chest warned her about where her thoughts were heading, and she blinked, willing her mind back to the present. Back to the barracks. Back to the dorm room. Back to the tiny grated metal door in front of her.

It had been a long day.

She blinked slowly, body moving without thought, automatic, the act burned into her memory and her muscle like breathing. She eased the scourge into its place in the locker near her bed, next to the tin of salva and bits and pieces of material she would make sure were on her when she would be deployed next. When her brief stop in War College ended and Alder had her sent back out to battle the Camarilla. Her knife. The scourge from Porter she kept stowed away far in the back, a silent reminder of a loss, a failure, a lie, more than any sort of tool or weapon. Her broken-in and beaten gloves. An extra pair next to them, more pristine, only used once or twice since she received them in basic. 

The scourge settled in its place, fitting in the tiny space, and Raelle let out a breath, eyes drooping and body hurting.

It felt like she hadn’t stopped moving since the explosion. 

Since the world upended and somehow her and Abigail survived.

Maybe they hadn’t.

Maybe this was all a dream. A fever dream. Her last moments spent envisioning a future she would never actually have.

Maybe she died, and this was the other world. The afterlife. The place she would journey to as those she loved mourned.

Maybe.

Maybe.

So many maybes.

But, wasn’t death meant to be peaceful? A release? A gift? 

A chance to rest?

To finally be free of the pain and agony of life?

Her jaw locked tightly, hand gripping the door of the locker hard enough for the metal to cut into her palm.

Wasn’t the pain supposed to stop?

Then why was it all she felt? When she let the emotions haphazardly trapped inside of her, shoved so far down and away they should be forgotten, but so wild and rampant they bucked and scratched at her mind and soul until they were freed once more, roam and take over. When she laid in bed in the middle of the night, nothing but the shadows and memories as companions, her heart hurt so much she thought she might be dying. When she muffled her choked gasping tears with her pillow. Bit her lip and tongue so hard she bled. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t move. Could do nothing but stare up at the ceiling. Stare and feel and wordlessly beg for it to stop. For something to make it stop. 

For something to make sense.

Anything.

The only time her mind slowed down, when the agony and confusion disappeared, was the one night she felt a sharp stabbing in her hand. 

A _S_ had appeared in her palm.

She traced the letter until it went away. Over and over again.

When she awoke the next morning, she’d let her eyes linger on a certain brunette across the mess hall, eyes locking and no words needed.

Her back stiffened as light footfalls echoed behind her, stopping at the edge of her doorway.

Her entire being tensed as her name fell from lips she never thought would ever say her name again, “Raelle.”

_It couldn’t be real._

_She was dead._

_Gone._

_Never coming home._

_That’s what the letter had said. Neatly typed and simple. Short._

_Willa Collar was killed in action. The United States Army and General Alder extended their deepest condolences._

_The flag they got was still tucked away in its place back home. Out of sight for those not looking but a pilgrimage for those who knew her. Those who still lived. Were alive and breathing and grieving in that broken house with the chipped shutters and crumbling structure. With the cracked foundation and shattered soul._

_The home that barely survived the blow brought on by an ancient accord and a deadly war. A blow that struck so hard everything rattled and fell apart for one brief moment and was never fully put back together again. Held together with thin words and drifting glances, hushed murmurs and a pain so intense it was a wonder it didn’t knock the whole thing down for good._

_A family so devastated that only the promise of a worse future, one where Raelle would soon leave to join the very army that took her mother from her, from them, appeared more bleak._

_Raelle could still taste the bitter regrets and heartbreaking what-ifs and what might have beens on her tongue._

_What if she hugged her mama a little tighter one last time? What if she asked her to stay? What if her mama hadn’t been so tired? If Raelle had done something, anything. Played her a sweeter song. Strummed the melody her parents first danced to on their wedding day. Stopped sitting with her harmonica and got a job, helped earn more money so her father didn’t have to work so much._

_But, no. There was no way out. Not for them. Not for witches. Not for Collars._

_And yet._

_Yet._

_No._

_No, this couldn’t be real._

_Because, Willa Collar was standing right in front of Raelle, and she didn’t look hurt at all._

_She looked fine._

_She looked like the last time Raelle had seen her. Hugged her. Said goodbye._

_She looked like the woman in the photographs her dad kept in a shoebox under his bed. Like the woman in her memories, a little older, a little harder, but still the mother who would come home and watch with tired yearning eyes as her family welcomed her back with open arms and excited loving voices._

_The woman Raelle looked up to. Cherished. Would sit and wait on the neighbor’s porch strumming the guitar listlessly for hours, for days, for weeks, until the mailbox in front of her home was opened and a letter dropped inside. The woman who Raelle missed so much it ached. Hurt like nothing she’d ever felt before. Hurt more than the time she got pushed down for taking Hannah’s hand or the time she tumbled out of a tree and damn near broke her neck. Hurt worse than when she got the scar on her face or the first time someone shouted at her about how witches deserved to be locked up. Sent away. Didn’t belong. Dead._

_The only thing that hurt just as much was when she sat in that office in the necro building and was told the love of her life was dead._

_Told Scylla was gone._

_Swept away in the storm._

_Never coming back._

_Not coming home._

_But, that was wrong, too._

_A lie._

_Just like this._

_Seemed like no one stayed dead these days._

_And everyone lied._

_So many lies._

_“Raelle.” Willa breathed out, a touch of reverence and disbelief intertwined in the cutting crisp tone._

_Raelle’s lips trembled and her eyelids twitched as the voice she’d longed so much to hear washed over her like a roaring river after the winter melted away, untamed and strong, slamming into her chest and sweeping her feet out from under her._

_She hadn’t heard her mother say her name in so long._

_Hadn’t seen her face._

_Felt her presence._

_Her mama was there._

_Alive._

_Real._

_Tangible._

_Raelle could reach out and touch her. Feel her. Have her arms wrap around her and cradle her like she did when Raelle was a child, young and full of so much false bravado, wanting to slay all the monsters but unable to do anything but stagger under the force of the world and its unforgiving unmerciful power._

Raelle forced her body to relax, her muscles to loosen and her mind to focus. Wetting her lips, she pushed to her feet, not turning around to look at the older woman, “I have nothing to say to you.”

A sigh, and the boots slipped further into the room, closing the door behind her, “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.” Raelle wrestled with her jacket, movements suddenly jerky, off-kilter, clumsy.

Like everything else in her life.

Like the emotions careening through her, tickling her fingertips and scorching her nerves. Making the blood rush in her ears and her lungs feel like they were full of rocks. Sand and stone. Dust breathed in as she lay bleeding out, Abigail beside her as the sky filled with fire and no one came to help them.

No one came back.

No one came.

“Rae,”

“Don’t.” the word bit out. She finally tore her jacket off and marched to her closet. Trembling hands roughly hung up the coat, the tingle of the hanger like a gunshot in the silence, loud and abrasive.

“We are going to talk whether you like it or not, girl. This was not how I wanted to tell you, but we are at a point where we do not have many choices. Things are escalating. Quickly. The Camarilla are here.”

A snort, “Yeah. Got that.” The marks on her chest and back could attest to that. Would never let her forget. Raelle pressed her lips together and rubbed at her nose. Her mouth wobbled as the turmoil tossed inside of her, raging and sinking her into a darkness she refused to give into. Claws pulled at her, beckoning her to get lost in the waves, the pain, the hurt. The swirling mess. The same mess that had given her a plan the moment she took the oath. A plan she kept hold of as a lifeline until a sexy smirk and soft touch had her thinking maybe there was a chance. A chance for something.“Get out.”

_Willa stepped toward her, mouth and face revealing nothing but the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling with emotion. “Honey.”_

_Something snapped._

_Swift and cruel. A sharp blade sliced through Raelle’s flesh and bone like she was back in China and watching Abigail bundle the Tarim boy back onto the helicopter._

_Anger filled her. Pure rage. Dark and black and blinding._

_Her entire body shook, an awful dreadful shivering that locked her jaw and had her hands curled into fists so tight her knuckles turned as white as the gloves the officers wore to the last funeral she had gone to. That were worn in Raelle’s nightmares._

_“No,” Raelle stumbled back a step, “No.”_

_No._

_Willa paused, gaze tracking her, lips pursing, “Raelle.”_

_“You’re dead.” Raelle’s head shook. Mind a mess and heart thundering yet stopping dead in its tracks, “You died.” Her throat burned and her words tore at her as they clawed their way up, “You died.”_

_Willa exhaled slowly, “I know. If you would…”_

_“You died.” Raelle cut her off. “They sent us a letter. A telegram. They...there was nothing left. You were gone. You didn’t come home. You didn’t…”_

_“Raelle!” Willa barked. “Calm down.”_

_“Calm down?” Raelle stared at her incredulously. She almost laughed, “My mother who I was told died...who we had a funeral for...who didn’t come home...is standing in front of me...and I’m supposed to what? Sit down and sip tea?”_

There was a quiet pause, and Raelle closed her eyes, doing everything she could to concentrate on the way her lungs moved, the feel of air coming in and out, the rise and fall of her chest, instead of the way her eyes burned and her stomach churned. The way she wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. Wanted to punch the wall and scream. Wanted to destroy the room, rip and rage until nothing was left except for the emptiness she once sought so much. 

The way she wanted to hide her face in her mother’s chest and be rocked to sleep like she had been in her memories.

How she wanted to know. Know so much. Know everything.

How she didn’t want to know anything at all.

Because she knew everything she needed to.

Willa made a choice.

It wasn’t her.

It wasn’t their family.

It wasn’t home.

“I missed you.” Willa’s voice broke the silence.

_I missed you._

Bullshit.

Complete and utter bullshit.

Raelle spun around so fast she nearly toppled over, fists raised and chin jutted out, “Shut up.”

Willa stared at her. Calm. Almost serene.

Only the nearly invisible change in her eyes gave her away.

The fluttering of something. 

Of sadness.

Guilt.

Pain.

Conviction.

Confidence.

Steely self-belief that refused to waver. 

“You didn’t miss me.” Raelle’s hands were like stones at her sides, arms strained with the effort to curl her fingers tighter and tighter into a ball, elbows locked and muscles vibrating with power and grief, “You didn’t give a damn about me. Not about me. Not about dad. Not about anyone but yourself.”

“That’s not true.”

“You left!” the room shook as hard as her voice, “You left us. You didn’t come home. You didn’t tell us. You…” her words choked, throat closing around the lump of sorrow solid and grating in her throat, “you didn’t choose us.”

_I chose you!_

_I chose you, instead of them. I chose you._

Raelle’s shoulders fell, eyes desolate, as Willa took in the words, mouth pinching with each blow, “I chose you, Raelle. I chose you and your father every moment of every day.”

Raelle shook her head, turning away from her.

“I did everything because of you. I wanted you safe. I wanted to be with you and your father so very much. But, the only way I could keep you safe was to leave you.”

Raelle scoffed, “You only did this for yourself.”

“I…”

“You think this is what we wanted?” Raelle shot back before she could finish. “Being left alone? Told you were dead? You think that kept us safe?” Raelle glared at her bed, unable to look at the woman, “We would have given anything to have you back. Anything. Dad would have died to have one more day with you.” She gulped, “You joined the Spree. You killed people. That doesn’t keep me safe. Nothing you did kept me safe.” The scar on her chest burned. “You need to go.”

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t look at her.

Hear her.

She could barely breathe.

A few seconds.

Silence.

Then.

“You left this.” 

Raelle reluctantly tilted her head to glance at the outstretched hand.

Nestled in the open palm was a harmonica.

Her harmonica.

Slightly rusted and dented, but still shining like the dreams it once held.

Still smelling and feeling like the warm summer afternoons in the Cession. Days spent by the dried up riverbank or hidden in the tall grass of the fields. Spread out on the porch as her neighbor lazily strummed his guitar or ducked inside her bedroom, humming a few bars before her dad got back from a late shift at the shop.

The harmonica that had belonged to her aunt. To her grandmother. Her great-grandmother.

A Collar heirloom, if there ever was one. Something not born of blood and war like her combat charm but home and love. Family. Hope and sadness and all the emotions tethering a soldier to their roots. To the Cession.

The harmonica Raelle kept on her at Fort Salem. Stowed in her pouch. Her pocket. Always within reach. A good luck charm. A piece of her family, her hometown, her past and her future. The second item she made sure to have on her during graduation after her combat charm. Had secured on her when she shipped out to China. 

The harmonica that was as much a part of her as the color of her eyes or the tinge of her hair.

The one thing she refused to give up or part with.

The harmonica she threw away with every speck of power inside of her as she stormed away from her mother.

“I don’t want it.” Raelle dipped her eyes away.

“You loved this.” Her eyes were dimly bright, “Used to play it all the time. You were good.” 

“I loved you.” Raelle choked out. “I loved my family.” Tears blurred her vision, “But, if being a Collar means being a liar. Means hurting the people you love. Leaving them. I don’t want to be a Collar anymore”

And that harmonica belonged to a Collar.

The air seemed to leave the room. 

It grew cold.

Tense.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You don’t mean it when you say you loved us. Guess we all say things we don’t mean.” Raelle walked back to her locker and knelt down, “Goodbye, Willa.”

“Raelle.”

The younger witch didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch.

“Your stubbornness will only hurt you, Raelle.”

“Not much different from anything else I got from you.”

A bell chimed in the distance.

“I have to meet my unit for dinner.” Raelle spoke up.

Neither moved.

Neither gave in.

Raelle stared at the closed metal door. Didn’t flinch. Gave nothing away.

She could hear her mother standing there. Watching her. Silent words all they shared. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. We still need to talk about logistics.”

Raelle exhaled harshly and waited for the door to open and close again before resting her head against the cold metal of the locker door.

The first tear wasn’t the last.

* * *

Sgt. Raelle Collar was twenty-one the last time she heard a song.

Sgt. Raelle Collar was twenty-one the last time she heard her love.

Sgt. Raelle Collar was twenty-one the last time she heard anything.

Coughing a wet vicious cough that tore at her throat like dull knives, rusted and crooked, Raelle rolled onto her side, trying to push herself up, to stand, kneel, move. Her hand slipped in the puddle of slick crimson pooled beside her. Pooled beneath her. She blinked lazily at it.

Why was her hand so wet?

Why did her body hurt so much?

She tried to push but her arm wouldn’t move. 

She wouldn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She flopped back, hand and arm limply flattening in the muddy mixture of brown and red. The air around her was fuzzy. Like early morning in the Cession right before the sun rose. When the fog still clung to the land and sky, hiding the new day for a few more moments and letting the night fall away and the sky take its time brightening. The fireflies still winked and the birds sang their good mornings to the flowers and the flowing river.

She missed the Cession.

Hadn’t been home in years.

Hadn’t seen her dad in years.

The fields.

The stream.

The long dirt road.

The dusty houses and dustier trucks.

Her neighbors.

She coughed again. Her chest cracked, and she groaned as spit and blood gathered in the crook of her lips.

Her eyelids began to lower. Turning her once sprightly vision into tiny slits. She could just make out the ground. Bumpy and full of debris. Rocks and pebbles. Dirt. Mud. There...just out of reach...her scourge. Unwound and twisted up.

Why was it so far away?

“RAELLE!”

Boots clattered toward her, but Raelle barely heard them.

She barely heard anything.

It was quiet.

Nice.

It’d been a long time since it had been quiet.

Peaceful.

Calm.

Not since the first Camarilla attack.

Not since the War.

The War that became a Civil War.

A World War.

The Final War.

The War to End All Wars.

Hands grabbed at her shoulder, carefully turning her onto her back.

The dirt slipped away, replaced by a blazing sky full of smoke and a burning sun that stung her face.

“Raelle,” the voice spoke again. A muted whimper. Fingers dug at her uniform, her body, dragging along until they hit something that made Raelle flinch and sputter. Hit something that felt like lightning in her belly. Burned worse than any fire.

“You’re ok.” the voice spoke again. “You’re going to be ok, Raelle.”

Of course she was.

Why wouldn’t she be?

“Raelle. Hey.” A face appeared above her as hands pressed down on her stomach.

Scylla.

It was Scylla.

Like a goddess. A dream.

She was so beautiful.

“Scylla.” Raelle exhaled.

Scylla’s face trembled, “You’re hurt. You’re going to be ok though.”

Raelle smiled, a small crooked bloody grin. “You’re here.”

“Yes. I’m here.” Scylla gulped. She pressed harder on the wound, “I’m going to heal you, ok?”

Heal her? “You’re not a fixer.”

“Try to breathe with me.” Scylla ignored her.

“Scyl?”

“Breathe, Raelle.”

“I miss you.”

The hands shook against her.

“I’m sorry.” Raelle added.

How long had it been since she let herself think those words?

Since she was in a place she could say them?

How long had it been since they weren’t separated? Since she was sent to every corner of the world? Never where Scylla was. 

How long since she could pause and look at the woman who still held her heart?

How long since she could be where Scylla was?

Be with her?

Just be?

“It’s ok.” Scylla gulped. “I forgive you. It’s ok.”

Raelle huffed, teeth and lips stained with the same sticky liquid coating the brunette’s hands, “Lóù imé wèlá _._ ”

“Raelle,”

“I miss home, Scyl. Want to go home.”

“I know. You will. We’ll go together. You and me.”

“Want to see my dad.”

“You will. Breathe with me.”

Raelle’s eyes closed, “Your mom played guitar.”

Scylla didn’t reply.

“I play guitar. Banjo, too.” Raelle murmured. “Harmonica. I...I had a harmonica.” Her eyes opened, lashes barely leaving their resting place against her skin, “Lost it. It’s gone.”

Hands left her stomach and grabbed at her face, forcing her to look into desperate blue eyes, “Please. Raelle. Focus.” Blood smeared across her cheeks and chin. Grim and gruesome.

“Scylla?”

“Damn it, Raelle. Breathe with me!” Scylla snapped.

She did.

Raelle stared into those eyes and listened to the voice of a goddess.

Lost herself in the deepest depths she’d ever swam in.

An ocean of love that filled her and enveloped her in emotions and feelings she never found anywhere else.

Blue that sang to her. A soft tender tune that was the only sound she ever wanted to hear. Ever wanted to play. That called to her. Never let her go. Never left her.

She evened out her breathing, and her heartbeat slowed into a steady rhythm. 

A rhythm that matched the beats of the woman she loved.

She felt a warmth fill her. Slipped into her veins and reminded her of a cozy fire in the dead of winter. The spring sun sparkling on the roaring river like diamonds. The smell of wildflowers and tobacco. Engine oil and blackberries. Like the first time she heard a guitar. The first time she touched her harmonica. The first time she felt the vibration of the strings of the banjo reverberate through her entire being. Golden strands weaved into her blood, tying her back together piece by piece.

_Her father settled into the seat across from her, hands grizzled and whiskers in need of a shave. He lifted his chin at the box, “Open it.”_

_“What is it?” Raelle asked, delicately touching the box, running the tip of her forefinger along the edge. It wasn’t her birthday._

_She only ever got gifts for her birthday._

_Her dad smiled at her, “Open it and find out.”_

_Raelle bit her lip, a sense of excitement bubbling up inside, but she pushed it down. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. The shop had been slow lately. Maybe it was a new pair of shoelaces. Hers were all but gone. Or, maybe it was something from her mama. Maybe he had found a new batch of photos. She liked looking at them when she got lonely and missed her mama’s voice. Missed her healing touch. Felt she was forgetting the color of her eyes._

_Slowly, she slid her fingers around the lid and lifted._

_She tilted her head in confusion at the small item nestled inside in a pillow of scrunched up newspaper. Blinking, she gingerly picked it up, holding it up to the light for inspection. She turned it around, studying all sides of it, “What is it?”_

_Her dad smiled gently, “Harmonica. Your aunt used to play. Got your musical side from your mama. That was V’s.”_

The memory flowed out of her, swimming through the connection.

_Raelle ran her hand along Scylla’s bare arm, the brunette asleep against her. She would need to leave soon. The sun was rising, and the bells would begin to ring._

_She couldn’t leave, though._

_Not yet._

_A little longer._

_One more second._

_One more breath._

_She traced the outline of her shoulder, dipping down to her elbow, and finally landing on her wrist. Pressing a tender kiss to the back of her girlfriend’s shoulder, Raelle let her mouth trail up to the small space between her neck and shoulder. The brunette twitched, hands clenching and a tiny broken whimper escaping. Her fingers dug into the sheet, and she unconsciously curled into herself._

_A nightmare._

_Raelle tucked her face in the loose locks, mussed and soft, there and began to hum gently as she pressed herself closer to the shivering girl. An old song she hadn’t heard in forever, in a different life, but tickled her throat as she wrapped her arms more fully around the slumbering body slowly calming._

_“Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter_

_'Way, you rolling river_

_For her I cross your roaming waters_

_Away, I'm bound away_

_'Cross the wide Missouri_

_'Tis seven long years since last I've seen you_

_And hear your roaming river_

_'Tis seven long years since last I've seen you_

_Away, we're bound away_

_'Cross the wide Missouri”_

The link broke, and Raelle gasped as the hands holding her were ripped away. 

Snapping her eyes open, blood still in her mouth and wound still open, she watched as Scylla tumbled backwards, an unseen force crashing into her. The necro scrambled to her feet, immediately lifting her arms and singing low as another blast slammed into her, driving her a few steps back. 

Raelle blinked, trying to understand, to get her mind to catch up, to work. 

Scylla was being attacked.

Raelle locked her jaw.

She had to help her.

She could hear the songs being sung. Could see the defensive posture the woman took. Felt the earth shake. 

Bodies ran towards them. 

Uniforms.

Soldiers.

Theirs.

Raelle tried to roll onto her side. 

She had to protect Scylla until help came. 

Had to keep her safe.

Twisting onto her shoulder, Raelle dug the heel of her hand into the mud.

She pushed, arm straining as fire burned in her veins, exploding throughout her nerves.

Locking her elbow, she shuffled her legs, trying to get onto her knees.

A hand roughly clamped down on her shoulder.

Before she could think, she was on her back.

A knife jammed into her chest.

The last sound she heard was the seed, the song, dying away, replaced by a scream.

The world faded away in the blink of an eye.

The ground began to rumble around her.

It all went black.

The enemy standing above her was thrown back by an unseen force.

* * *

Sgt. Raelle Collar was twenty-one when she was shattered to her core

Raelle Collar was twenty-one when she was reborn.

Sitting in the narrow bed shoved unceremoniously in the tiny spare room of the house that had once been a Spree hideout and was now a makeshift hospital, the blonde stared down at her blunt fingernails. She watched them pick at the sheet draped over her legs, pillowed like a miniature mountain from her knee being bent to provide a bruised and tired place for the curve of her arm to rest. The sheet was as thin as the mattress and just as itchy. Rough. A cheap accommodation quickly put together to handle the incoming casualties from the front lines of the global war.

The war to determine where witches truly stood in society.

What their future was.

Who would lead.

Who would live.

Who was free and what freedom meant.

Sniffing, she ran the tip of her tongue along her chapped and cracked lips. She could almost taste the metallic bitterness of blood and bile. 

“Hey, Rae,” the soothing boyish voice only caused the fixer to scratch at the sheet a bit harder. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m not dead.” Raelle muttered.

“Yeah.” Byron nodded, cheerful smile shrinking, “Docs say you’ll be out of here soon.”

Soon. Raelle wanted to scoff. Instead she pushed her fingers deeper into the mattress. She finally looked up at him, “I should be dead. I’m not.”

Physically.

She didn’t feel alive, though.

Hadn’t felt alive in years.

“Raelle,”

“How is everyone else?” Raelle cut him off. 

Byron sighed silently, but accepted the change, “Fine. Everyone is fine. Wanted me to tell you to get well soon. Not the same without their shitbird stirring up trouble.”

Raelle nodded.

Sounded like Bells.

At least the others were ok.

Unlike her.

Unable to die and unable to live.

Trapped in a never ending loop of death and destruction and pain and hopelessness.

Fighting and losing and moving, moving, moving.

Trying and failing and seeing things she couldn’t unsee.

Covered in scars, some visible, some not.

Hands that clenched and unclenched painfully. 

Ears that rang in the silence and were deaf in the explosions.

A sense of loneliness that never went away, no matter how many people surrounded her. No matter how close she stood to Abigail or felt Glory’s presence at her side.

A hunger for vanilla ice cream and blackberry cobbler that burned and gnawed in her belly.

A thirst for clear river water that meandered over pebbles and glimmered in her cupped hands.

A longing for a woman who made her think of musical kisses and melodic touches and songs that played across smiles. Hands that traced the marks left by guitar strings and lips that trailed across the hums left from the harmonica.

Raelle Collar was nothing but an empty shell with everything torn away, bit by bit, until there was nothing left.

Nothing but a scuffed up soul hanging on by the threads of the mycelium.

Byron watched her for a moment before offering a sympathetic smile, “We won the battle. Looks like all this might finally be over soon.”

Over.

Was anything ever over?

A small box appeared in her best friend’s hands, and he cautiously placed it on the bed near Raelle’s hand, “Here.”

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out.” Byron began to back away with a wink, “I have to go help Augustin with something. I’ll be back in a couple hours. I’ll bring cards. Don’t annoy the fixers too much. Bellweather threatened to come back and kick your ass if you don’t rest up.”

Raelle bit her lip as the boy left. She glanced at the box. It was small. Indistinguishable from any other box. No markings. No words or wrapping paper. No big bow or ribbon.

A simple box.

Taking a breath, she lethargically picked it up and plucked at the lid with her finger.

The lid fell away.

There, nestled in scrunched up notebook paper, was a harmonica.

Brand new and polished.

Gleaming.

Untarnished.

Perfect.

Her heart stopped.

It was a harmonica.

_A harmonica._

Her hands began to shake.

She wanted to throw it away.

She wanted to hold it close.

She never wanted to lay eyes on it again.

Unsteady fingertips eased it out of the box.

It fit perfectly in her grasp.

A tiny white piece of paper fluttered in the crumpled lined paper as she lifted the harmonica closer to her face. Fluttered the same way her heart did. Painful and comforted. 

She burned yet felt cold.

A chill lit up every nerve-ending. 

Blinking rapidly, she clenched her teeth together.

It was a beautiful instrument.

Solid.

Real.

Waiting to be played.

Swallowing thickly, she clumsily grabbed the scrap of paper.

The words were hastily scribbled, as if the writer had little to no time before needing to shove it in the box.

It didn’t matter.

Raelle knew who it was before she began reading.

_Raelle_

_I asked Byron to give this to you. I couldn’t. I wish I was there with you. Soon, hopefully. Very soon._

_This is yours. It’s not a Collar’s. It’s not your mother’s. It’s not your aunt’s. It’s yours and only yours._

_I hope you play it for me one day._

_Prove you're the musician you’ve always told me you are._

_\- S_

Lungs empty and throat closed, Raelle stared through a sheen of tears at the harmonica nestled in her hand.

Hers.

Feeling a prick on her palm, she flipped her left hand over.

A _S_ appeared across the creased skin.

* * *

Former Sergeant Raelle Collar was twenty-one when the itch returned to her fingers.

Former Sergeant Raelle Collar was twenty-one when the hum tugged at her lips once more.

Former Sergeant Raelle Collar was twenty-one when the clouds began to clear.

Walking briskly through the throng of people, uniforms mixed with civilian clothes, men and women, witches and civilians, Raelle ducked around a couple wrapped in each other’s arms, embracing like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

They probably hadn’t.

The sound of cheers and jubilation rang out like never-ending firecrackers, sharp and bright and loud. 

The war was over.

The fighting was done.

Peace.

For now, at least.

Raelle fidgeted with the strap of her pack and hefted it a bit further up her lithe shoulder. Her wrinkled uniform jacket hung limply, battered and faded with holes at the seams and threads thinning out, and dipped down her arm to cling to her elbow as she dodged a group of witches excitedly shouting and gesturing wildly.

It was a new day.

A new future was on the horizon.

Unknown but not unwelcome.

Sniffing, the blonde rubbed at her nose before scratching at her chin.

She was tired. Exhausted. A bone-deep sort of tired that made her eyes feel heavy and her feet beg to drag.

She kept moving.

There was a bus to the Cession, and she had a ticket.

The Cession.

Home.

Abigail had offered to let her stay with her. Take over the summer place or the winter place, Raelle wasn’t quite sure which, and bum around until they figured out what to do next. Byron had offered to find an apartment with her in Boston. Even a few of her fellow fixers had mentioned sharing someplace close by. Maybe travel. See parts of the world not devastated by battle or overrun with memories of death.

Raelle waved them all off.

There was only one place she wanted to be.

Skipping along the sidewalk, something poked at her chest. Like an invisible finger nudging her. Prodding.

Like her heart seized up. A hand reaching inside and grasping it, letting it still beat but giving a quick squeeze to let her know someone was there.

Someone had a hold of her heart.

Feet slowing down, blue eyes scanned the area.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood tall, and she tensed, body automatically prepared for an attack. For a surprise. For the unexpected.

Nothing came.

She was surrounded by joy. By people laughing. Yelping. Hugging and kissing and making fools of themselves but not caring because the war was won, and so was freedom, in a way.

No one could ever truly be free.

Certainly not witches.

But, this might be a start.

Giving one last sweep of the street with her gaze, hand unconsciously reaching into her pocket to feel the crisp edge of the ticket, Raelle blinked.

Blinked again.

It couldn’t be.

Could it.

There, on the other side of the road, huddled near a storefront, the small shop closed, a tiny red and white sign hung on the door, was Scylla Ramshorn.

Scylla.

The girl Raelle hadn’t seen since the last battle she fought in. The last combat she saw before being sent to work in a hospital, alternating between healing wounded fighters and aiding in the logistics of supplying an increasingly rag-tag force that was finally turning the tide of the war in their favor.

A force that didn’t support Alder.

Swallowing roughly, Raelle couldn’t look away.

Her bus was there.

She needed to leave if she wanted to catch it.

There weren’t too many buses heading as far as she needed to go. Not ending at the outskirts of Virginia or only hitting the first town across the border. She’d still need to hitch a ride for an hour to get to the ramshackle home she grew up in from the farthest town with a bus stop and a post office.

She watched as Scylla lifted a hand and carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was slightly longer, slightly darker, but still the same beautiful locks Raelle would run her hands through when they were together, lying in bed, half asleep and content. She looked older yet softer. Hardened yet shy. Withdrawn from the crowds but a shining lighthouse in the middle of the sea, drawing the eye to her scrutinizing thoughtful sad gaze. In simple jeans and shirt, coat and boots, she blended in with the civilians and shadows. But, there was something about her essence, her aura, that set her apart. Made her unique. Different. Unlike anyone or anything around her.

She looked like the first and last note Raelle ever played. Ever heard. Ever felt against her fingertips and along the lines of her mouth.

Long and deep. Flooded her senses and dug into her soul. Sweet and strong and made her fingers itch and her throat scratch.Her tongue grow heavy and her nerves to call out to move. To strum and sing and harmonize.

She hummed in her veins and thrummed a cadence in her mind that repeated over and over, unforgettable and comforting in its repetition. In its trusted presence that never disappeared. In the way the beat matched her heart's and trembled in her blood.

Raelle hadn’t played an instrument in years. 

How could she when the only song she ever felt was not by her side? A phantom woman who was always just out of reach?

A woman who now stood only a few breaths away?

Inhaling deeply, Raelle twisted around and hopped off the curb. Her steps were quick, light, ghostly, as she sped across the pavement.

As she drew near, Scylla glanced over at her.

The brunette seemed to freeze, eyes flickering and mouth dropping open slightly in surprise.

Raelle moved faster.

Scylla pushed away from the wall as the fixer stumbled to a halt in front of her.

They stared at each other.

Neither knew what to say.

There were so many words.

Yet, none were needed.

All Raelle could do was stare into her eyes. Eyes that held everything she ever wanted in small circles of blue. 

Her past, present, and future wrapped up in an ocean of thoughts and memories.

Scylla shuffled to the side a step, opening up a small space beside her.

Just big enough for Raelle to fit.

She did.

Easing in next to the older witch, Raelle bit her lip.

It had been so long.

So much left unsaid.

So much left undone.

So much she needed to say. Wanted to say.

Felt.

Needed.

Wanted.

Because, Scylla never left her.

Not really.

No matter how far apart they were, Scylla was still with her.

Raelle couldn’t forget her. Couldn’t let her go.

No matter how far she went. Where she ended up. What she did or didn’t do. Who she saw or spoke to. 

It was always Scylla on her mind.

In her soul.

Cautiously reaching into the inner pocket of her jacket, Raelle slowly pulled out a harmonica. A bit scratched but well taken care of.

Scylla glanced at her, and her mouth wobbled as she saw what glimmered in the girl’s hand.

Raelle fiddled with the instrument. She turned it between her fingers and tapped it against her thigh a few times. Habit. 

They both stood there, not saying a word, surrounded by life. By noise and chaos.

They remained silent.

One minute passed.

Then another.

They slowly drifted toward each other till their shoulders touched. 

“That’s a nice harmonica.” Scylla spoke up casually, but there was a slight tremor in her fingertips.

Raelle wet her lips, “Thanks. It was a gift.”

Scylla’s brow crinkled as the familiar words, a breath of a memory, tickled her ear. “Do you play it?”

Raelle gave a tiny shrug, “Used to. Haven’t for...I’m a bit rusty.”

Scylla nodded, “Play anything I’d know?”

Raelle rubbed the pad of her thumb along the corner of the small object. 

After a few beats, she brought the harmonica up to her lips.

After another moment, feeling eyes on her, she began to hum. 

The tune started out hesitantly. Haltingly. 

She’d never played it on the harmonica before.

Tried to remember the notes.

Make them work on the harp.

As she began to recall, the music grew louder. More confident. 

She felt Scylla shudder beside her. A small movement. Probably not noticed by anyone else.

As she hit the first chorus, Raelle felt Scylla lean against her.

A hand slowly weaved into her own. Fingers laced and held on tight.

She would swear she heard Scylla sing gently along with a muffled wet sigh as the words played in her mind.

_Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea._

* * *

Raelle was twenty-two when she was put back together.

Raelle was twenty-two when she was allowed to be in love.

Raelle was twenty-two when she actually started living.

Raelle was twenty-two when the music completely returned to her.

Curled up near the edge of the river, the silt soft beneath her hands that sifted through the peaty thriving black dirt, the blonde watched the water bend and roll past her. Slow and sure, the river never wavered. Never hesitated or paused. It kept moving. Kept living and breathing and existing.

Inhaling the clear clean Cession air full of nothing more than the faint sweetness of the nearby flowers and the musky denseness of the earth, Raelle let the dirt and grass curl around her knuckles and tickle her palms.

A contented smile tugged at her lips as she felt the body next to her lean in closer, shoulders pressing together and arms entwined.

Words whispered teasingly in her ear, “Are you going to play me something, Hopper?”

Raelle rolled her eyes and nudged the old borrowed banjo laid out at her side, harmonica heavy in the pocket of her dirt stained blue jeans, “I never should’ve introduced you two.”

Scylla kissed her cheek, “Come on, Collar. I heard you were a musician. Prove it.”

Raelle turned her head and caught her girlfriend’s lips in a tender kiss, “In a minute.”

There was another song she wanted to focus on first.

_Lóù imé wèlá._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's (hopefully) it folks! Thoughts? Good? Bad? Ugly? Let me know! Any and all comments are adored and cherished. Kudos are highly coveted. You simply reading is great.
> 
> Music:
> 
> Shenandoah: Unknown origin dating back to the early 19th century (we are talking by or before 1860). Version I'd recommend for this story is similar to another song on the list - Peter Hollens for singing. Harmonica/Instrumental there are a lot of great options. Maybe try Charlie McCoy or Mickey Raphael.
> 
> Hanging Tree: Song by James Newton Howard. Check out the version sung by Peter Hollens
> 
> Puff the Magic Dragon: Peter, Paul & Mary

**Author's Note:**

> Good? Bad? Indifferent? Let me know! You are aware of the process. Cookies? 1 for reading, 2 for reading and kudos, 3 for reading and commenting. Giant virtual non-tracking chocolate chip treats just for you!
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!


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